CHAUNCEY  WETMORE  WELLS 

1872-1933 


GASf 


This  book  belonged  to  Chauncey  Wetrrlp^Wells.  He  taught  in 
Yale  College,  of  which  he  was  a  graduate,  from  1897  to  1901,  and 
from  1901  to  1933  at  this  University. 

Chauncey  Wells  was,  essentially,  a  scholar.  The  range  of  his  read 
ing  was  wide,  the  breadth  of  his  literary  sympathy  as  uncommon 
as  the  breadth  of  his  human  sympathy.  He  was  less  concerned 
with  the  collection  of  facts  than  with  meditation  upon  their  sig 
nificance.  His  distinctive  power  lay  in  his  ability  to  give  to  his 
students  a  subtle  perception  of  the  inner  implications  of  form, 
of  manners,  of  taste,  of  the  really  disciplined  and  discriminating 
mind.  And  this  perception  appeared  not  only  in  his  thinking  and 
teaching  but  also  in  all  his  relations  with  books  and  with  men. 


•4  / 


Uniform  toitft  tfrg 


XXXVI  LYRICS  AND  XII  SON 
NETS.  i8mo,  $1.00.  Nineteenth 
Edition. 

FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL 
BOOK,  etc.  i8mo,$i.oo.  Eleventh 
Edition. 


LATER   LYRICS 


T.   B.   ALDRICH 

Later  Lyrics 

SELECTED   FROM 

MERCEDES 

THE  SISTERS'  TRAGEDY 
WYNDHAM    TOWERS 

AND 

UNGUARDED  GATES 


BOSTON   AND  NEW  'YXDRK  '  >  '  *   ^   • 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

®i)e  JSifatrstfle  |3ress,  CambriUgt 
1896 


Copyright,  1895, 
BY  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

All  rights  reserved. 


IN  MEMORIAL 

C  UJ-UJelt 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


I  ivould  be  the  Lyric 

Rver  on  the  lip, 
Rather  than  the  Epic 

Memory  lets  slip. 
I  ivould  be  the  diamond 

At  my  lady's  ear, 
Rather  than  the  June-rose 
Worn  but  once  a  year. 


863751 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Sweetheart,  sigh  no  more 1 1 

Memory r3 

A  Touch  of  Nature 14 

Alec  Yeaton's  Son 16 

Invita  Minerva T9 

Insomnia 20 

Threnody 22 

"  Pillared  Arch  and  Sculptured  Tower  "  .  24 

At  Nij nii-Novgorod 25 

The  Winter  Robin 27 

Echo-Song 28 

A  Mood 3° 

Sargent's  Portrait  of  Edwin  Booth  at  "The 

Players" 31 

Thorwaldsen 33 

Guilielmus  Rex 34 

A  Bridal  Measure 35 

Imogen 37 


8  CONTENTS 

"Like    Crusoe,   walking    by   the    lonely 

strand  " 38 

Batuschka 39 

A  Dedication 41 

Soldiers'  Song 42 

Apparitions 44 

Prescience .45 

Tennyson 47 

"When  from  the  tense  chords  of  that 

mighty  lyre  " 49 

Outward  Bound 51 

Heredity 53 

The  Sailing  of  the  Autocrat 54 

Pepita 56 

Books  and  Seasons 60 

Discipline 62 

The  Letter 63 

On  Lynn  Terrace 64 

Andromeda 68 

"  I  '11  not  confer  with  Sorrow  "    .     .     .     .70 

No  Songs  in  Winter 71 

Two  Moods 72 

Andalusian  Cradle- Song 74 

The  Voice  of  the  Sea 76 

"  I  vex  me  not  with  brooding  on  the  years  "  77 


CONTENTS  9 

A  Serenade 79 

A  Refrain Si 

"  Great  Captain,  glorious  in  our  wars  "    .  82 

Reminiscence 84 

Broken  Music 85 

Comedy' 88 

Seeming  Defeat 89 

A  Petition 91 

Quits 92 


LATER    LYRICS 


i 

SWEETHEART,  SIGH  NO   MORE 

IT  was  with  doubt  and  trembling 
I  whispered  in  her  ear. 
Go,  take  her  answer,  bird-on-bough, 
That  all  the  world  may  hear  — 
Sweetheart,  sigh  no  more  ! 

Sing  it,  sing  it,  tawny  throat, 
Upon  the  wayside  tree, 
How  fair  she  is,  how  true  she  is, 
How  dear  she  is  to  me  — 
Sweetheart^  sigh  no  more  / 

Sing  it,  sing  it,  tawny  throat, 
And  through  the  summer  long 
ii 


1 2     SWEE  THEAR  T,  SIGH  NO  MORE 

•  The. winds, aircng  the  clover-tops, 
And  brooks  for  dl  their  silvery  stops, 
.Shall  envy  you  the  song^— 
,  cigh  KO  morz  ! 


II 

MEMORY 

MY  mind  lets  go  a  thousand  things, 
Like  dates  of  wars  and  deaths  of  kings, 
And  yet  recalls  the  very  hour  — 
'T  was  noon  by  yonder  village  tower, 
And  on  the  last  blue  noon  in  May  — 
The  wind  came  briskly  up  this  way, 
Crisping  the  brook  beside  the  road ; 
Then,  pausing  here,  set  down  its  load 
Of  pine-scents,  and  shook  listlessly 
Two  petals  from  that  wild-rose  tree. 
13 


Ill 
A   TOUCH    OF    NATURE 

WHEN  first  the  crocus  thrusts  its  point 

of  gold 

Up  through  the  still  snow-drifted  garden- 
mould, 
And  folded  green  things  in  dim  woods 

unclose 
Their  crinkled  spears,  a  sudden  tremor 

goes 
Into  my  veins  and  makes  me  kith  and 

kin 
To  every  wild-born  thing  that  thrills  and 

blows. 
Sitting  beside  this   crumbling    sea-coal 

fire, 

Here  in  the  city's  ceaseless  roar  and  din, 
Far  from  the  brambly  paths  I   used  to 

know, 
Far  from  the  rustling   brooks  that  slip 

and  shine 

14 


A   TOUCH  OF  NATURE          15 

Where  the  Neponset   alders  take  their 

glow, 
I  share  the  tremulous  sense  of  bud  and 

briar 
And  inarticulate  ardors  of  the  vine. 


IV 
ALEC   YEATON'S    SON 

GLOUCESTER,  AUGUST,  1720 

THE  wind  it  wailed,  the  wind  it  moaned, 
And  the  white  caps  flecked  the  sea ; 

"  An'    I    would  to    God,"   the     skipper 

groaned, 
"  I  had  not  my  boy  with  me  !  " 

Snug  in  the  stern-sheets,  little  John 
Laughed  as  the  scud  swept  by ; 

But  the  skipper's  sunburnt  cheek  grew 

wan 
As  he  watched  the  wicked  sky. 

"  Would  he  were  at  his  mother's  side  !  " 
And  the  skipper's  eyes  were  dim. 

"  Good  Lord  in  heaven,  if  ill  betide, 
What  would  become  of  him  ! 

"  For  me  —  my  muscles  are  as  steel, 
For  me  let  hap  what  may  ; 
16 


ALEC  YEA  TON'S  SON  17 

I  might  make  shift  upon  the  keel 
Until  the  break  o'  day. 

"  But  he,  he  is  so  weak  and  small, 
So  young,  scarce  learned  to  stand  — 

O  pitying  Father  of  us  all, 
I  trust  him  in  Thy  hand  ! 

"  For  Thou  who  markest  from  on  high 
A  sparrow's  fall  —  each  one  !  — 

Surely,  O  Lord,  thou  'It  have  an  eye 
On  Alec  Yeaton's  son  !  " 

Then,  helm  hard-port ;  right  straight  he 
sailed 

Towards  the  headland  light: 
The  wind  it  moaned,  the  wind  it  wailed, 

And  black,  black  fell  the  night. 

Then  burst  a  storm  to  make  one  quail, 
Though     housed     from    winds     and 
waves  — 

They  who  could  tell  about  that  gale 
Must  rise  from  watery  graves  ! 

Sudden  it  came,  as  sudden  went ; 
Ere  half  the  night  was  sped, 


i8  ALEC  YE  ATONES  SON 

The   winds    were    hushed,    the     waves 

were  spent, 
And  the  stars  shone  overhead. 

Now,  as  the  morning  mist  grew  thin, 
The  folk  on  Gloucester  shore 

Saw  a  little  figure  floating  in 
Secure,  on  a  broken  oar  ! 

Up  rose  the  cry,  "  A  wreck !  a  wreck  ! 

Pull,  mates,  and  waste  no  breath  !  "  — 
They  knew  it,  though  't  was  but  a  speck 

Upon  the  edge  of  death  ! 

Long  did  they  marvel  in  the  town 

At  God  his  strange  decree, 
That  let  the  stalwart  skipper  drown 

And  the  little  child  go  free  ! 


INVITA   MINERVA 

NOT  of  Desire  alone  is  music  born, 
Not  till  the  Muse   wills  is  our  passion 

crowned ; 

Unsought  she  comes  ;  if  sought  but  sel 
dom  found, 
Repaying  thus   our    longing   with   her 

scorn. 

Hence  is  it  poets  often  are  forlorn, 
In  super-subtle  chains  of  silence  bound, 
And  mid  the  crowds  that  compass  them 

around 

Still  dwell  in  isolation  night  and  morn, 
With  knitted  brow  and   cheek  all  pas 
sion-pale 

Showing  the  baffled  purpose  of  the  mind. 
Hence  is  it  I,  that  find  no  prayers  avail 
To  move  my  Lyric  Mistress  to  be  kind, 
Have  stolen  away  into  this  leafy  dale, 
Drawn  by    the  flutings  of  the   silvery 
wind. 

19 


VI 
INSOMNIA 

SLUMBER,  hasten  down  this  way, 
And,  ere  midnight  dies, 

Silence  lay  upon  my  lips, 
Darkness  on  my  eyes. 

Send  me  a  fantastic  dream  ; 

Fashion  me  afresh  ; 
Into  some  celestial  thing 

Change  this  mortal  flesh. 

Well  I  know  one  may  not  choose ; 

One  is  helpless  still 
In  the  purple  realm  of  Sleep  : 

Use  me  as  you  will. 

Let  me  be  a  frozen  pine 
In  dead  glacier  lands  ; 

Let  me  pant,  a  leopard  stretched 
On  the  Libyan  sands. 
20 


INSOMNIA 

Silver  fin  or  scarlet  wing 
Grant  me,  either  one ; 

Sink  me  deep  in  emerald  glooms, 
Lift  me  to  the  sun. 

Or  of  me  a  gargoyle  make, 
Face  of  ape  or  gnome, 

Such  as  frights  the  tavern-boor 
Reeling  drunken  home. 

Work  on  me  your  own  caprice, 

Give  me  any  shape  ; 
Only,  Slumber,  from  myself 

Let  myself  escape ! 


VII 
THRENODY 


UPON  your  hearse  this  flower  I  lay. 
Brief  be  your    sleep !      You   shall    be 

known 

When  lesser  men  have  had  their  day : 
Fame  blossoms  where  true  seed  is  sown, 
Or  soon  or  late,  let  Time  wrong  what  it 

may. 

ii 

Unvext  by  any  dream  of  fame, 

You  smiled,  and  bade  the    world  pass 

by: 

But  I  —  I  turned,  and  saw  a  name 
Shaping  itself  against  the  sky  — 
White  star  that  rose  amid   the  battle's 

flame ! 

22 


THRENODY  2 

III 

Brief  be  your  sleep,  for  I  would  see 
Your  laurels  —  ah,  how  trivial  now 
To  him  must  earthly  laurel  be 
Who  wears  the  amaranth  on  his  brow  ! 
How  vain  the  voices  of  mortality ! 


VIII 

"PILLARED  ARCH  AND  SCULP 
TURED   TOWER" 

PILLARED  arch  and  sculptured  tower 
Of  Ilium  have  had  their  hour; 
The  dust  of  many  a  king  is  blown 
On  the  winds  from  zone  to  zone ; 
Many  a  warrior  sleeps  unknown. 
Time  and  Death  hold  each  in  thrall, 
Yet  is  Love  the  lord  of  all ; 
Still  does  Helen's  beauty  stir 
Because  a  poet  sang  of  her ! 
24 


IX 
AT   NIJNII-NOVGOROD 

"  A  CRAFTY  Persian  set  this  stone  ; 

A  dusk  Sultana  wore  it ; 
And  from  her  slender  finger,  sir, 
A  ruthless  Arab  tore  it. 

"  A  ruby,  like  a  drop  of  blood  — 
That  deep-in  tint  that  lingers 
And    seems   to   melt,   perchance   was 

caught 
From  those  poor  mangled  fingers  ! 

"  A  spendthrift  got  it  from  the  knave, 

And  tost  it,  like  a  blossom, 

That  night  into  a  dancing-girl's 

Accurst  and  balmy  bosom. 

"  And  so  it  went.     One  day  a  Jew 
At  Cairo  chanced  to  spy  it 
25 


26          AT  NIJNII-NO VGOROD 

Amid  a  one-eyed  peddler's  pack, 
And  did  not  care  to  buy  it  — 

"  Yet  bought  it  all  the  same.     You  see, 

The  Jew  he  knew  a  jewel. 
He  bought  it  cheap  to  sell  it  dear : 
The  ways  of  trade  are  cruel. 

"  But  I  —  be  Allah's  all  the  praise  !  — 

Such  avarice,  I  scoff  it ! 
If  I  buy  cheap,  why,  I  sell  cheap, 
Content  with  modest  profit. 

"  This  ring  —  such  chasing  !  look,  milord, 

What  workmanship  !     By  Heaven, 
The  price  I  name  you  makes  the  thing 
As  if  the  thing  were  given ! 

"  A  stone  without  a  flaw  !     A  queen 

Might  not  disdain  to  wear  it. 
Three  hundred  roubles  buys  the  stone  ; 
No  kopeck  less,  I  swear  it !  " 

Thus  Hassan,  holding  up  the  ring 
To  me,  no  eager  buyer.  — 

A  hundred  roubles  was  not  much 
To  pay  so  sweet  a  liar ! 


THE   WINTER   ROBIN 

Sursum  corda 

Now  is  that  sad  time  of  year 
When  no  flower  or  leaf  is  here ; 
When  in  misty  Southern  ways 
Oriole  and  jay  have  flown, 
And  of  all  sweet  birds,  alone 
The  robin  stays. 

So  give  thanks  at  Christmas-tide  : 
Hopes  of  spring-time  yet  abide  ! 
See,  in  spite  of  darksome  days, 
Wind  and  rain  and  bitter  chill, 
Snow  and  sleet-hung  branches,  still 
The  robin  stays ! 

27 


XI 
ECHO-SONG 

i 

WHO  can  say  where  Echo  dwells  ? 
In  some  mountain-cave,  methinks, 
Where  the  white  owl  sits  and  blinks ; 
Or  in  deep  sequestered  dells, 
Where  the  foxglove  hangs  its  bells, 
Echo  dwells. 
Echo! 

Echo! 

II 

Phantom  of  the  crystal  air, 
Daughter  of  sweet  Mystery! 
Here  is  one  has  need  of  thee ; 
Lead  him  to  thy  secret  lair, 
Myrtle  brings  he  for  thy  hair  — 
Hear  his  prayer, 
Echo! 

Echo! 
28 


ECHO-SONG  29 

III 

Echo,  lift  thy  drowsy  head, 
And  repeat  each  charmed  word 
Thou  must  needs  have  overheard 
Yestere'en  ere,  rosy-red, 
Daphne  down  the  valley  fled  — 
Words  unsaid, 
Echo! 

Echo! 

IV 

Breathe  the  vows  she  since  denies ! 
She  hath  broken  every  vow; 
What  she  would  she  would  not  now  — 
Thou  didst  hear  her  perjuries. 
Whisper,  whilst  I  shut  my  eyes, 
Those  sweet  lies, 
Echo  ! 

Echo! 


XII 
A   MOOD 

A  BLIGHT,  a  gloom,  I  know  not  what, 

has  crept  upon  my  gladness  — 
Some  vague,  remote  ancestral  touch  of 

sorrow,  or  of  madness  ; 
A  fear  that  is  not  fear,  a  pain  that  has 

not  pain's  insistence ; 
A  sense  of  longing,  or  of  loss,  in  some 

foregone  existence  ; 
A  subtle  hurt  that   never  pen   has  writ 

nor  tongue  has  spoken  — 
Such  hurt    perchance  as    Nature  feels 

when  a  blossomed  bough  is  broken. 
30 


XIII 

SARGENT'S  PORTRAIT  OF  ED 
WIN  BOOTH  AT  "THE  PLAY 
ERS" 

THAT  face  which  no  man  ever  saw 
And  from  his  memory  banished  quite, 
With  eyes  in  which  are  Hamlet's  awe 
And  Cardinal  Richelieu's  subtle  light, 
Looks  from  this  frame.    A  master's  hand 
Has  set  the  master-player  here, 
In  the  fair  temple  that  he  planned 
Not  for  himself.     To  us  most  dear 
This  image  of  him  !     "It  was  thus 
He   looked;    such    pallor    touched    his 

cheek ; 

With  that  same  grace  he  greeted  us  — 
Nay,  't  is  the  man,  could  it  but  speak  !  " 
Sad  words  that  shall  be  said  some  day  — 
Far  fall  the  day  !     O  cruel  Time, 
Whose    breath    sweeps    mortal    things 

away, 


32     FOR  TRAIT  OF  ED  WIN  BOOTH 

Spare  long  this  image  of  his  prime, 
That  others  standing  in  the  place 
Where,  save  as  ghosts,  we  come  no  more, 
May  know  what  sweet  majestic  face 
The  gentle  Prince  of  Players  wore ! 


XIV 
THORWALDSEN 

NOT  in   the   fabled  influence  of  some 

star, 

Benign  or  evil,  do  our  fortunes  lie : 
We  are  the  arbiters  of  destiny, 
Lords  of  the  life  we  either  make  or  mar. 
We  are  our  own  impediment  and  bar 
To  noble  issues.     With  averted  eye 
We  let  the  golden  moment  pass  us  by, 
Time's    foolish    spendthrifts,   searching 

wide  and  far 
For  what  lies  close  at  hand.     To  serve 

our  turn 

We  ask  fair  wind  and  favorable  tide. 
From  the  dead  Danish  sculptor  let  us 

learn 

To  make  Occasion,  not  to  be  denied : 
Against  the  sheer  precipitous  mountain 
side 

Thorwaldsen  carved  his  Lion  at  Lucerne. 
33 


XV 
GUILIELMUS  REX 

THE  folk  who  lived  in  Shakespeare's  day 
And  saw  that  gentle  figure  pass 
By  London  Bridge,  his  frequent  way  — 
They  little  knew  what  man  he  was. 

The  pointed  beard,  the  courteous  mien, 
The  equal  port  to  high  and  low, 
All  this  they  saw  or  might  have  seen  — 
But  not  the  light  behind  the  brow  ! 

The  doublet's  modest  gray  or  brown, 
The  slender  sword-hilt's  plain  device, 
What  sign  had  these  for  prince  or  clown  ? 
Few  turned,  or  none,  to  scan  him  twice. 

Yet  't  was  the  king  of  England's  kings ! 
The  rest  with  all  their  pomps  and  trains 
Are  mouldered,  half-remembered  things — 
'T  is  he  alone  that  lives  and  reigns ! 
34 


XVI 
A   BRIDAL   MEASURE 

FOR    S.    F. 

Gifts  they  sent  her  manifold, 
Diamonds  and  pearls  and  gold. 
One  there  was  among  the  throng 
Had  not  Midas'1  touch  at  need: 
He  against  a  sylvan  reed 
Set  his  lips  and  breathed  a  song. 

Bid  bright  Flora,  as  she  comes, 
Snatch  a  spray  of  orange  blooms 

For  a  maiden's  hair. 
Let  the  Hours  their  aprons  fill 
With  mignonette  and  daffodil, 

And  all  that 's  fair. 

For  her  bosom  fetch  the  rose 

That  is  rarest  — 
Not  that  either  these  or  those 
35 


36  A  BRIDAL  MEASURE 

Could  by  any  happening  be 
Ornaments  to  such  as  she ; 

They  '11  but  show,  when  she  is  dressed, 
She  is  fairer  than  the  fairest 

And  out-betters  what  is  best ! 


XVII 
IMOGEN 

LEONATUS  POSTHUMUS  speaks: 

SORROW,  make  a  verse  for  me 

That  shall  breathe  all  human  grieving ; 
Let  it  be  love's  exequy, 

And  the  knell  of  all  believing ! 
Let  it  such  sweet  pathos  have 
As  a  violet  on  a  grave, 

Or  a  dove's  moan  when  his  mate 
Leaves  the  new  nest  desolate. 
Sorrow,  Sorrow,  by  this  token, 
Braid  a  wreath  for  Beauty's  head.  .  .  . 
Valley-lilies,  one  or  two, 
Should  be  woven  with  the  rue. 
Sorrow,  Sorrow,  all  is  spoken  — 
She  is  dead ! 
37 


XVIII 

"LIKE     CRUSOE,    WALKING    BY 
THE    LONELY   STRAND" 

LIKE    Crusoe,    walking    by   the    lonely 

strand 
And   seeing  a  human  footprint  on  the 

sand, 
Have  I   this  day  been  startled,  finding 

here, 

Set  in  brown  mould  and  delicately  clear, 
Spring's  footprint  —  the  first  crocus  of 

the  year ! 

O  sweet  invasion !     Farewell  solitude ! 
Soon  shall  wild  creatures  of  the  field  and 

wood 
Flock  from  all  sides  with  much  ado  and 

stir, 

And  make  of  me  most  willing  prisoner  ! 
38 


XIX 
BATUSCHKA1 

FROM  yonder  gilded  minaret 
Beside  the  steel-blue  Neva  set, 
I  faintly  catch,  from  time  to  time, 
The  sweet,  aerial  midnight  chime  — 
"  God  save  the  Tsar  !  " 

Above  the  ravelins  and  the  moats 
Of  the  white  citadel  it  floats ; 
And  men  in  dungeons  far  beneath 
Listen,  and  pray,  and  gnash  their  teeth  — 
"  God  save  the  Tsar !  " 

The  soft  reiterations  sweep 
Across  the  horror  of  their  sleep, 
As  if  some  daemon  in  his  glee 

1  "  Little  Father,"  or  "  Dear  Little  Father,"  a 
term  of  endearment  applied  to  the  Tsar  in  Rus 
sian  folk-song. 

39 


40  BA  TUSCHKA 

Were  mocking  at  their  misery  — 
"  God  save  the  Tsar  !  " 

In  his  Red  Palace  over  there, 
Wakeful,  he  needs  must  hear  the  prayer. 
How  can  it  drown  the  broken  cries 
Wrung  from  his  children's  agonies  ?  — 
"  God  save  the  Tsar  !  " 

Father  they  called  him  from  of  old  — 
Batuschka!  .  .  .  How  his  heart  is  cold! 
Wait  till  a  million  scourged  men 
Rise  in  their  awful  might,  and  then  — 
God  save  the  Tsar  ! 


XX 

A    DEDICATION 

TAKE  these  rhymes  into  thy  grace, 
Since  they  are  of  thy  begetting, 

Lady,  that  dost  make  each  place 
Where  thou  art  a  jewel's  setting. 

Some  such  glamour  lend  this  Book : 
Let  it  be  thy  poet's  wages 

That  henceforth  thy  gracious  look 
Lies  reflected  on  its  pages. 


XXI 
SOLDIERS'   SONG 

(FROM  "  MERCEDES  ") 

THE  camp  is  hushed  ;  the  fires  burn  low  ; 
Like  ghosts  the  sentries  come  and  go  : 
Now  seen,  now  lost,  upon  the  height 
A  keen  drawn  sabre  glimmers  white. 
Swiftly  the  midnight  steals  away  — 
Reposez-vous,  bans  chevaliers  ! 

Perchance  into  your  dream  shall  come 
Visions  of  love  or  thoughts  of  home ; 
The  furtive  night  wind,  hurrying  by, 
Shall  kiss  away  the  half-breathed  sigh, 
And  softly  whispering,  seem  to  say, 
Reposez-vous,  bons  chevaliers  / 

Through  star-lit   dusk   and   shimmering 

dew 

It  is  your  lady  comes  to  you  ! 
42 


SOLDIERS'  SONG  43 

Delphine,  Lisette,  Annette  —  who  knows 
By  what  sweet  wayward  name  she  goes  ? 
Wrapped  in  white  arms  till  break  of  day, 
Reposez-vous,  dons  chevaliers! 


XXII 
APPARITIONS 

AT  noon  of  night,  and  at  the  night's  pale 

end, 

Such  things  have  chanced  to  me 
As  one,   by  day,  would  scarcely  tell    a 

friend 
For  fear  of  mockery. 

Shadows,  you  say,  mirages  of  the  brain ! 

I  know  not,  faith,  not  I. 
Is  it  more  strange  the  dead  should  walk 

again 

Than  that  the  quick  should  die  ? 
44 


XXIII 
PRESCIENCE 

THE  new  moon  hung  in  the  sky, 
The  sun  was  low  in  the  west, 
And  my  betrothed  and  I 

In  the  churchyard  paused  to  rest  - 
Happy  maiden  and  lover, 
Dreaming  the  old  dream  over : 
The  light  winds  wandered  by, 
And  robins  chirped  from  the  nest. 

And  lo  !  in  the  meadow-sweet 

Was  the  grave  of  a  little  child, 
With  a  crumbling  stone  at  the  feet, 
And  the  ivy  running  wild  — 
Tangled  ivy  and  clover 
Folding  it  over  and  over  : 
Close  to  my  sweetheart's  feet 
Was  the  little  mound  up-piled. 
45 


46  PRESCIENCE 

Stricken  with  nameless  fears, 

She  shrank  and  clung  to  me, 
And  her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears 
For  a  sorrow  I  did  not  see  : 

Lightly  the  winds  were  blowing, 
Softly  her  tears  were  flowing  — 
Tears  for  the  unknown  years 
And  a  sorrow  that  was  to  be ! 


XXIV 
TENNYSON 

1890 
i 

SHAKESPEARE  and  Milton  —  what  third 

blazoned  name 

Shall  lips  of  after  ages  link  to  these  ? 
His  who,   beside   the  wild    encircling 

seas, 
Was  England's  voice,  her  voice  with  one 

acclaim, 
For  threescore   years ;    whose  word   of 

praise  was  fame, 

Whose    scorn   gave    pause   to    man's 
iniquities. 

ii 

What  strain  was   his   in  that   Crimean 

war  ? 

A  bugle-call  in  battle  ;  a  low  breath, 
Plaintive  and  sweet,  above  the  fields  of 
death  ! 

47 


48  TENNYSON 

So  year  by  year  the  music  rolled  afar, 
From  Euxine  wastes  to  flowery  Kanda 
har, 

Bearing  the    laurel    or    the    cypress 
wreath. 


in 

Others   shall  have  their  little  space  of 

time, 
Their  proper  niche  and  bust,  then  fade 

away 

Into  the  darkness,  poets  of  a  day; 
But  thou,  O  builder  of  enduring  rhyme, 
Thou   shalt   not  pass!      Thy  fame    in 

every  clime 

On  earth  shall  live  where  Saxon  speech 
has  sway. 

IV 

Waft  me  this  verse  across  the  winter  sea, 
Through  light  and  dark,  through  mist 

and  blinding  sleet, 

O  winter  winds,  and  lay  it  at  his  feet ; 

Though  the  poor  gift  betray  my  poverty, 

At  his  feet  lay  it :  it  may  chance  that  he 

Will  find  no  gift,  where  reverence  is, 

unmeet. 


XXV 

''WHEN  FROM  THE  TENSE 
CHORDS  OF  THAT  MIGHTY 
LYRE  " 

January,  1892 

i 

WHEN  from  the  tense   chords  of  that 

mighty  lyre 
The     Master's     hand,   relaxing,    falls 

away, 
And  those  rich  strings  are  silent  for 

all  time, 
Then  shall  Love  pine,  and  Passion  lack 

her  fire, 
And  Faith   seem  voiceless.     Man  to 

man  shall  say, 

"  Dead  is  the  last  of  England's  lords 
of  rhyme." 

49 


SO  THA  T  MIGHTY  L  YRE 


Yet  —  stay  !  there  's  one,  a  later  laureled 

brow, 

With  purple  blood  of  poets  in  his  veins ; 
Him  has   the   Muse   claimed ;   him 

might  Marlowe  own ; 
Greek   Sappho's   son  !  —  men's  praises 

seek  him  now. 
Happy  the  realm  where  one  such  voice 

remains ! 

His  the  dropt  wreath  and  the  unen- 
vied  throne. 

in 

The   wreath   the   world    gives,   not  the 

mimic  wreath 
That  chance  might  make  the  gift  of 

king  or  queen. 

O  finder  of  undreamed-of  harmonies  ! 
Since  Shelley's  lips  were  hushed  by  cruel 

death, 
What  lyric  voice  so  sweet  as  this  has 

been 

Borne  to  us  on  the  winds  from  over 
seas? 


XXVI 
OUTWARD   BOUND 

I  LEAVE  behind  me  the  elm-shadowed 

square 

And  carven  portals  of  the  silent  street, 
And   wander   on  with    listless,   vagrant 

feet 
Through  seaward-leading  alleys,  till  the 

air 
Smells  of  the  sea,  and  straightway  then 

the  care 
Slips  from  my  heart,  and  life  once  more 

is  sweet. 
At  the  lane's  ending  lie  the  white-winged 

fleet. 
O  restless  Fancy,  whither  wouldst  thou 

fare? 
Here  are  brave  pinions  that  shall  take 

thee  far  — 
Gaunt  hulks  of   Norway;   ships  of  red 

Ceylon ; 

Si 


52  OUTWARD  BOUND 

Slim-masted  lovers  of  the  blue  Azores ! 
'T  is  but  an  instant  hence  to  Zanzibar, 
Or  to  the  regions  of  the  Midnight  Sun : 
Ionian  isles  are  thine,  and  all  the  fairy 
shores  ! 


XXVII 

HEREDITY 

A  SOLDIER  of  the  Cromwell  stamp, 
With  sword  and  psalm-book  by  his  side 
At  home  alike  in  church  and  camp : 
Austere  he  lived,  and  smileless  died. 

But  she,  a  creature  soft  and  fine  — 
From  Spain,  some  say,  some   say  from 

France : 

Within  her  veins  leapt  blood  like  wine  — 
She  led  her  Roundhead  lord  a  dance ! 

In  Grantham  church  they  lie  asleep ; 
Just  where,  the  verger  may  not  know. 
Strange  that  two  hundred  years  should 

keep 
The  old  ancestral  fires  aglow ! 

In  me  these  two  have  met  again; 
To  each  my  nature  owes  a  part : 
To  one,  the  cool  and  reasoning  brain ; 
To  one,  the  quick,  unreasoning  heart. 
53 


XXVIII 

THE   SAILING    OF    THE   AUTO 
CRAT 

ON    BOARD   THE   S.   S.   CEPHALONIA,    APRIL 
26,  1886 


O  WIND  and  Wave,  be  kind  to  him  ! 
So,   Wave    and   Wind,    we    give    thee 

thanks ! 

O  Fog,  that  from  Newfoundland  Banks 
Makest  the  blue  bright  ocean  dim, 
Delay  him  not !     And  ye  who  snare 
The  wayworn  shipman  with  your  song, 
Go  pipe  your  ditties  otherwhere 
While  this  brave  vessel  plows  along! 
If  still  to  lure  him  be  your  thought, 
O  phantoms  of  the  watery  zone, 
Be  wary  lest  yourselves  get  caught 
With  music  sweeter  than  your  own  ! 
54 


SAILING  OF  THE  AUTOCRAT     55 


Yet,  soft  sea  spirits,  be  not  mute  ; 
Murmur  about  the  prow,  and  make 
Melodious  the  west  wind's  lute. 
For  him  may  radiant  mornings  break 
From  out  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 
And  golden  noons  above  him  bend, 
And  fortunate  constellations  keep 
Bright  vigils  to  his  journey's  end  ! 

in 

Take  him,  green  Erin,  to  thy  breast ! 
Keep  him,  gray  London  —  for  a  while  ! 
In  him  we  send  thee  of  our  best, 
Our  wisest  word,  our  blithest  smile  — 
Our  epigram,  alert  and  pat, 
That  kills  with  joy  the  folly  hit  — 
Our  Yankee  Tsar,  our  Autocrat 
Of  all  the  happy  realms  of  wit  ! 
Take  him  and  keep  him  —  but  forbear 
To  keep  him  more  than  half  a  year.  .  . 
His  presence  will  be  sunshine  there, 
His  absence  will  be  shadow  here  ! 


XXIX 
PEPITA 

SCARCELY  sixteen  years  old 
Is  Pepita.     (You  understand, 
A  breath  of  this  sunny  land 

Turns  green  fruit  into  gold  : 

A  maiden's  conscious  blood 
In  the  cheek  of  girlhood  glows  ; 
A  bud  slips  into  a  rose 

Before  it  is  quite  a  bud.) 

And  I  in  Seville  —  sedate, 
An  American,  with  an  eye 
For  that  strip  of  indigo  sky 

Half-glimpsed  through  a  Moorish  gate 

I  see  her,  sitting  up  there, 

With  tortoise-shell  comb  and  fan  ; 

Red-lipped,  but  a  trifle  wan, 
Because  of  her  coal-black  hair; 
56 


PEPITA  57 

And  the  hair  a  trifle  dull, 
Because  of  the  eyes  beneath, 
And  the  radiance  of  her  teeth 

When  her  smile  is  at  its  full. 

Against  the  balcony  rail 

She  leans,  and  looks  on  the  street ; 

Her  lashes,  long  and  discreet, 
Shading  her  eyes  like  a  veil. 

Held  by  a  silver  dart, 

The  mantilla's  delicate  lace 
Falls  each  side  of  her  face 

And  crosswise  over  her  heart. 

This  is  Pepita  — this 

Her  hour  for  taking  her  ease : 

A  lover  under  the  trees 
In  the  calle  were  not  amiss  ! 

Well,  I  must  needs  pass  by, 

With  a  furtive  glance,  be  it  said, 
At  the  dusk  Murillo  head 

And  the  Andalusian  eye. 

In  the  Plaza  I  hear  the  sounds 
Of  guitar  and  castanet ; 


58  PEPITA 

Although  it  is  early  yet, 
The  dancers  are  on  their  rounds. 

Softly  the  sunlight  falls 
On  the  slim  Giralda  tower, 
That  now  peals  forth  the  hour 

O'er  broken  ramparts  and  walls. 

Ah,  what  glory  and  gloom 
In  this  Arab-Spanish  town  ! 
What  masonry,  golden-brown, 

And  hung  with  tendril  and  bloom  ! 

Place  of  forgotten  kings  !  — 
With  fountains  that  never  play, 
And  gardens  where  day  by  day 

The  lonely  cicada  sings. 

Traces  are  everywhere 

Of  the  dusky  race  that  came, 
And  passed,  like  a  sudden  flame, 

Leaving  their  sighs  in  the  air  ! 

Taken  with  things  like  these, 
Pepita  fades  out  of  my  mind  : 
Pleasure  enough  I  find 

In  Moorish  column  and  frieze. 


PEPITA  59 

And  yet  I  have  my  fears, 
If  this  had  been  long  ago, 
I  might  .  .  .  well,  I  do  not  know  .  .  . 

She  with  her  sixteen  years  ! 


XXX 

BOOKS   AND   SEASONS 

BECAUSE  the  sky  is  blue  ;  because  blithe 

May 
Masks  in  the  wren's  note  and  the  lilac's 

hue  ; 

Because  —  in  fine,  because  the  sky  is  blue 
I  will  read  none  but  piteous  tales  to-day. 
Keep  happy  laughter  till  the  skies  be 


And  the  sad  season  cypress  wears,  and 

rue; 
Then,  when  the  wind  is  moaning  in  the 

flue, 
And  ways  are  dark,  bid  Chaucer  make  us 

gay- 

But  now  a  little  sadness  !     All  too  sweet 
This  springtide  riot,  this  most  poignant 
air, 

60 


BOOKS  AND  SEASONS          61 

This  sensuous  sphere  of  color  and  per 
fume  ! 

So  listen,  love,  while  I  the  woes  repeat 
Of  Hamlet  and  Ophelia,  and  that  pair 
Whose  bridal  bed  was  builded  in  a  tomb. 


XXXI 
DISCIPLINE 

IN  the  crypt  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
They  lay  there,  a  score  of  the  Dead: 
They  could  hear  the  priest  at  his  prayers, 
And  the  litany  overhead. 

They  knew  when  the  great  crowd  stirred 

As  the  Host  was  lifted  on  high ; 

And  they  smiled  in  the  dark  when  they 

heard 
Some  light-footed  nun  trip  by. 

Side  by  side  on  their  shelves 

For  years  and  years  they  lay ; 

And  those  who  misbehaved  themselves 

Had  their  coffin-plates  taken  away. 

Thus  is  the  legend  told 
In  black-letter  monkish  rhyme, 
Explaining  those  plaques  of  gold 
That  vanished  from  time  to  time  ! 
62 


XXXII 
THE    LETTER 

EDWARD   ROWLAND   SILL,   DIED    FEBRUARY   27, 

1887 

I  HELD  his  letter  in  my  hand, 

And  even  while  I  read 
The  lightning  flashed  across  the  land 

The  word  that  he  was  dead. 

How  strange  it  seemed !    His  living  voice 
Was  speaking  from  the  page 

Those  courteous  phrases,  tersely  choice, 
Light-hearted,  witty,  sage. 

I  wondered  what  it  was  that  died  ! 

The  man  himself  was  here, 
His  modesty,  his  scholar's  pride, 

His  soul  serene  and  clear. 

These  neither  death  nor  time  shall  dim, 
Still  this  sad  thing  must  be  — 

Henceforth  I  may  not  speak  to  him, 
Though  he  can  speak  to  me  ! 
63 


XXXIII 
ON    LYNN    TERRACE 

ALL  day  to  watch  the  blue  wave  curl  and 

break, 
All  night  to  hear  it  plunging  on  the 

shore  — 

In  this  sea-dream  such  draughts  of  life  I 
take, 

I  cannot  ask  for  more. 

Behind  me  lie  the  idle  life  and  vain, 
The   task  unfinished,    and  the  weary 

hours ; 

That  long  wave  softly  bears  me  back  to 
Spain 
And  the  Alhambra's  towers. 

Once  more  I  halt  in  Andalusian  pass, 
To  list  the  mule-bells  jingling  on  the 

height ; 

Below,  against  the  dull  esparto  grass, 
The  almonds  glimmer  white. 
64 


ON  LYNN  TERRACE  65 

Huge  gateways,  wrinkled,  with  rich  grays 

and  browns, 

Invite  my  fancy,  and  I  wander  through 
The  gable-shadowed,   zigzag   streets   of 
towns 

The  world's  first  sailors  knew. 

Or,   if   I  will,   from   out   this   thin  sea- 
haze 

Low-lying  cliffs  of  lovely  Calais  rise ; 

Or  yonder,  with  the  pomp  of  olden  days, 

Venice  salutes  my  eyes. 

Or   some  gaunt   castle  lures   me  up  its 

stair ; 
I    see,   far   off,   the   red-tiled   hamlets 

shine, 

And  catch,  through  slits  of  windows  here 
and  there, 

Blue  glimpses  of  the  Rhine. 

Again  I  pass  Norwegian  fjord  and  fell, 
And  through  bleak  wastes   to  where 

the  sunset's  fires 

Light  up  the  white-walled  Russian  cita 
del, 

The  Kremlin's  domes  and  spires. 


66  ON  L  YNN  TERRA  CE 

And  now  I  linger  in  green  English  lanes, 
By  garden-plots   of  rose   and   helio 
trope  ; 

And  now  I  face  the  sudden  pelting  rains 
On  some  lone  Alpine  slope. 

Now  at  Tangier,  among  the  packed  ba 
zaars, 
I   saunter,  and  the   merchants  at  the 

doors 

Smile,  and  entice  me :   here   are  jewels 
like  stars, 

And  curved  knives  of  the  Moors ; 

Cloths  of   Damascus,  strings   of  amber 

dates ; 
What  would  Howadji  .  .  .  silver,  gold, 

or  stone  ? 

Prone  on  the  sun-scorched  plain  outside 
the  gates 

The  camels  make  their  moan. 

All  this  is  mine,  as  I  lie  dreaming  here, 
High  on  the  windy  terrace,   day  by 

day; 

And  mine  the  children's  laughter,  sweet 
and  clear, 

Ringing  across  the  bay. 


ON  L  YNN  TERRA  CE  67 

For  me  the  clouds ;  the  ships  sail  by  for 

me; 
For  me  the  petulant  sea-gull  takes  its 

flight ; 

And  mine  the  tender  moonrise  on  the  sea, 
And  hollow  caves  of  night. 


XXXIV 
ANDROMEDA 

THE  smooth-worn  coin  and  threadbare 

classic  phrase 
Of  Grecian  myths  that  did  beguile  my 

youth, 

Beguile  me  not  as  in  the  olden  days : 
I  think  more  grief  and  beauty  dwell  with 

truth. 

Andromeda,  in  fetters  by  the  sea, 
Star-pale  with  anguish  till  young  Perseus 

came, 
Less  moves  me  with  her  suffering  than 

she, 
The    slim   girl   figure  fettered   to   dark 

shame, 
That  nightly  haunts  the  park,  there,  like 

a  shade, 
Trailing  her  wretchedness  from  street  to 

street. 

68 


ANDROMEDA  69 

See  where  she  passes  —  neither  wife  nor 

maid. 

How  all  mere  fiction  crumbles  at  her  feet ! 
Here  is  woe's  self,  and  not  the  mask  of 

woe  : 
A  legend's  shadow  shall  not  move  you  so ! 


XXXV 

'I'LL    NOT    CONFER    WITH 
SORROW" 

I  'LL  not  confer  with  Sorrow 

Till  to-morrow ; 
But  Joy  shall  have  her  way 
This  very  day. 

Ho,  eglantine  and  cresses 

For  her  tresses  !  — 
Let  Care,  the  beggar,  wait 

Outside  the  gate. 

Tears  if  you  will  —  but  after 

Mirth  and  laughter ; 
Then,  folded  hands  on  breast 

And  endless  rest. 
70 


XXXVI 
NO    SONGS    IN    WINTER 

THE  sky  is  gray  as  gray  may  be, 
There  is  no  bird  upon  the  bough, 
There  is  no  leaf  on  vine  or  tree. 

In  the  Neponset  marshes  now 
Willow-stems,  rosy  in  the  wind, 
Shiver  with  hidden  sense  of  snow. 

So,  too,  't  is  winter  in  my  mind, 

No  light-winged  fancy  comes  and  stays : 

A  season  churlish  and  unkind. 

Slow  creep  the  hours,  slow  creep  the  days, 
The  black  ink  crusts  upon  the  pen  — 
Wait  till  the  bluebirds,  wrens,  and  jays, 
And  golden  orioles  come  again ! 


XXXVII 
TWO    MOODS 

i 

BETWEEN  the  budding  and  the  falling  leaf 

Stretch  happy  skies ; 

With  colors  and  sweet  cries 

Of  mating  birds  in  uplands  and  in  glades 

The  world  is  rife. 

Then  on  a  sudden  all  the  music  dies, 

The  color  fades. 

How  fugitive  and  brief 

Is  mortal  life 

Between  the  budding  and  the  falling  leaf ! 

O  short-breathed  music,  dying  on  the 

tongue 

Ere  half  the  mystic  canticle  be  sung  ! 
O  harp  of  life,  so  speedily  unstrung ! 
Who,  if  't  were  his  to  choose,  would 

know  again 

The  bitter  sweetness  of  the  lost  refrain, 
Its  rapture,  and  its  pain  ? 
72 


TWO  MOODS  73 

II 

Though  I  be  shut  in  darkness,  and  be 
come 

Insentient  dust  blown  idly  here  and  there, 
I  count  oblivion  a  scant  price  to  pay 
For  having  once  had  held  against  my  lip 
Life's  brimming  cup   of  hydromel   and 

rue  — 
For  having  once  known  woman's  holy 

love 

And  a  child's  kiss,  and  for  a  little  space 
Been  boon  companion  to  the  Day  and 

Night, 

Fed  on  the  odors  of  the  summer  dawn, 
And  folded  in  the  beauty  of  the  stars. 
Dear   Lord,   though    I    be    changed  to 

senseless  clay, 
And  serve   the   potter   as  he   turns  his 

wheel, 
I   thank  Thee  for  the  gracious  gift  of 

tears ! 


XXXVIII 

ANDALUSIAN    CRADLE-SONG 

(FROM  "MERCEDES") 

WHO  is  it  opens  her  blue  bright  eye, 
Bright  as  the  sea  and  blue  as  the  sky  ?  — 

Chiquita ! 

Who  has  the  smile  that  comes  and  goes 
Like   sunshine   over    her    mouth's    red 
rose  ?  — 

Muchachita  ! 

What  is  the  softest  laughter  heard, 
Gurgle  of  brook  or  trill  of  bird, 

Chiquita  ? 

Nay,  'tis  thy  laughter  makes  the  rill 
Hush  its  voice  and  the  bird  be  still, 

Muchachita  ! 

Ah,  little  flower-hand  on  my  breast, 
How  it  soothes  me  and  gives  me  rest ! 
Chiquita ! 
74 


ANDALUSIAN  CRADLE-SONG    75 

What  is  the  sweetest  sight  I  know  ? 
Three  little  white  teeth  in  a  row, 
Three  little  white  teeth  in  a  row, 
Muchachita  / 


XXXIX 
THE   VOICE    OF   THE    SEA 

IN  the  hush  of  the  autumn  night 
I  hear  the  voice  of  the  sea, 
In  the  hush  of  the  autumn  night 
It  seems  to  say  to  me  — 
Mine  are  the  winds  above, 
Mine  are  the  caves  below, 
Mine  are  the  dead  of  yesterday 
And  the  dead  of  long  ago  ! 

And  I  think  of  the  fleet  that  sailed 
From  the  lovely  Gloucester  shore, 
I  think  of  the  fleet  that  sailed 
And  came  back  nevermore  ; 
My  eyes  are  filled  with  tears, 
And  my  heart  is  numb  with  woe  — 
It  seems  as  if  't  were  yesterday, 
And  it  all  was  long  ago ! 
76 


XL 

"I  VEX  ME  NOT  WITH  BROOD 
ING   ON    THE   YEARS" 

I  VEX  me  not  with  brooding  on  the  years 
That  were  ere  I  drew  breath  :  why  should 

I  then 

Distrust  the  darkness  that  may  fall  again 
When  life  is  done  ?     Perchance  in  other 

spheres  — 
Dead  planets  —  I    once    tasted    mortal 

tears, 
And  walked  as  now  among  a  throng  of 

men, 
Pondering   things   that   lay  beyond   my 

ken, 

Questioning  death,  and  solacing  my  fears. 
Ofttimes  indeed  strange  sense  have  I  of 

this, 
Vague  memories   that   hold   me  with  a 

spell, 

Touches  of  unseen  lips  upon  my  brow, 
77 


78  I  VEX  ME  NOT 

Breathing  some  incommunicable  bliss  ! 
In  years  foregone,  O  Soul,  was  all  not 

well? 
Still  lovelier  life  awaits  thee.     Fear  not 

thou! 


XLI 

A   SERENADE 

i 

IMP  of  Dreams,  when  she  's  asleep, 
To  her  snowy  chamber  creep, 
And  straight  whisper  in  her  ear 
What,  awake,  she  will  not  hear  — 

Imp  of  Dreams,  when  she 's  asleep. 

ii 

Tell  her,  so  she  may  repent, 
That  no  rose  withholds  its  scent, 
That  no  bird  that  has  a  song 
Hoards  the  music  summer-long  — 
Tell  her,  so  she  may  repent. 

in 

Tell  her  there 's  naught  else  to  do, 
If  to-morrow's  skies  be  blue, 
But  to  come,  with  civil  speech, 
And  walk  with  me  to  Hampton  Beach  — 
79 


8o  A  SERENADE 

Tell  her  there  's  naught  else  to  do ! 
Tell  her,  so  she  may  repent  — 

Imp  of  Dreams,  when  she  's  asleep ! 


XLII 
A   REFRAIN 

HIGH  in  a  tower  she  sings, 

I,  passing  by  beneath, 
Pause  and  listen,  and  catch 

These  words  of  passionate  breath  — 
"  Asphodel,  flower  of  Life;  amaranth, 
flower  of  'Death  /" 

Sweet  voice,  sweet  unto  tears  ! 
What  is  this  that  she  saith  ? 
Poignant,  mystical  —  hark ! 

Again,  with  passionate  breath  — 
"Asphodel,  flower  of  Life ;   amaranth, 
flower  of  Death  !  " 
81 


XLHI 

"GREAT     CAPTAIN,     GLORIOUS 
IN    OUR   WARS" 

GREAT  Captain,  glorious  in  our  wars  — 
No  meed  of  praise  we  hold  from  him ; 
About  his  brow  we  wreathe  the  stars 
The  coming  ages  shall  not  dim. 

The  cloud-sent  man  !     Was  it  not  he 
That  from  the  hand  of  adverse  fate 
Snatched  the  white  flower  of  victory  ? 
He  spoke  no  word,  but  saved  the  State. 

Yet  History,  as  she  brooding  bends 
Above  the  tablet  on  her  knee, 
The  impartial  stylus  half  suspends, 
And  fain  would  blot  the  cold  decree : 

"  The  iron  hand  and  sleepless  care 
That  stayed  disaster  scarce  availed 
To  save  him  when  he  came  to  wear 
The  civic  laurel :  there  he  failed." 
82 


GREAT  CAPTAIN  83 

Who  runs  may  read  ;  but  nothing  mars 
That  nobler  record,  unforgot. 
Great  Captain,  glorious  in  our  wars  — 
All  else  the  heart  remembers  not. 


XLIV 
REMINISCENCE 

THOUGH  I  am  native  to  this  frozen  zone 
That  half  the  twelvemonth  torpid  lies,  or 

dead; 

Though  the  cold  azure  arching  overhead 
And  the  Atlantic's  never-ending  moan 
Are  mine  by  heritage,  I  must  have  known 
Life  otherwhere  in  epochs  long  since  fled  ; 
For  in  my  veins  some  Orient  blood  is  red, 
And  through  my  thought  are  lotus  blos 
soms  blown. 

I  do  remember  ...  it  was  just  at  dusk, 
Near  a  walled  garden  at  the  river's  turn 
(A  thousand  summers  seem  but  yester- 

day  !) 
A  Nubian  girl,  more  sweet  than  Khoorja 

musk, 

Came  to  the  water-tank  to  fill  her  urn, 
And,  with  the  urn,  she  bore  my  heart 
away! 

84 


XLV 
BROKEN    MUSIC 

A  note 
All  out  of  tune  in  this  world's  instrument. 

AMY  LEVY. 

I  KNOW  not  in  what  fashion   she  was 

made, 
Nor  what  her  voice  was,  when   she 

used  to  speak, 

Nor  if  the  silken  lashes  threw  a  shade 
On  wan  or  rosy  cheek. 

I  picture  her  with  sorrowful  vague  eyes 
Illumed  with  such  strange  gleams  of 

inner  light 

As  linger  in  the  drift  of  London  skies 
Ere  twilight  turns  to  night. 

I  know  not ;  I  conjecture.     5T  was  a  girl 
That  with  her  own  most  gentle  desper 
ate  hand 

85 


86  BROKEN  MUSIC 

From  out  God's  mystic  setting  plucked 
life's  pearl  — 

'T  is  hard  to  understand. 

So  precious  life  is  !     Even  to  the  old 
The  hours  are  as  a  miser's  coins,  and 

she- 

Within  her  hands  lay  youth's  unminted 
gold 

And  all  felicity. 

The  winged  impetuous  spirit,  the  white 

flame 
That  was  her  soul  once,  whither  has  it 

flown? 

Above  her  brow  gray  lichens  blot  her 
name 

Upon  the  carven  stone. 

This  is  her  Book  of  Verses  —  wren-like 

notes, 

Shy  franknesses,  blind  gropings,  haunt 
ing  fears ; 

At  times  across  the  chords  abruptly  floats 
A  mist  of  passionate  tears. 


BROKEN  MUSIC  87 

A  fragile  lyre   too  tensely  keyed    and 

strung, 

A  broken  music,  weirdly  incomplete : 
Here  a  proud  mind,  self-baffled  and  self- 
stung, 

Lies  coiled  in  dark  defeat. 


XLVI 

COMEDY 

THEY  parted,  with  clasps  of  hand 
And  kisses,  and  burning  tears. 
They  met,  in  a  foreign  land, 
After  some  twenty  years  : 

Met  as  acquaintances  meet, 
Smilingly,  tranquil-eyed  — 
Not  even  the  least  little  beat 
Of  the  heart,  upon  either  side. 

They  chatted  of  this  and  that, 
The  nothings  that  make  up  life ; 
She  in  a  Gainsborough  hat, 
And  he  in  black  for  his  wife. 
88 


XLVII 
SEEMING   DEFEAT 


THE  woodland  silence,  one  time  stirred 
By  the  soft  pathos  of  some  passing  bird, 

Is  not  the  same  it  was  before. 
The  spot  where  once,  unseen,  a  flower 
Has  held  its  fragile  chalice  to  the  shower, 
Is  different  for  evermore. 
Unheard,  unseen 
A  spell  has  been ! 


O  thou  that  breathest  year  by  year 
Music  that  falls  unheeded  on  the  ear, 

Take  heart,  fate  has  not  baffled  thee! 
Thou  that  with  tints  of  earth  and  skies 
89 


90  SEEMING  DEFEAT 

Fillest  thy  canvas  for  unseeing  eyes, 
Thou  hast  not  labored  futilely. 
Unheard,  unseen 
A  spell  has  been ! 


XLVIII 
A   PETITION 

To  spring  belongs  the  violet,  and  the 

blown 

Spice  of  the  roses  let  the  summer  own. 
Grant  me   this   favor,    Muse  —  all    else 

withhold  — 
That  I  may  not  write  verse  when  I  am 

old. 

And  yet  I  pray  you,  Muse,  delay  the  time  ! 
Be  not  too  ready  to  deny  me  rhyme ; 
And  when  the  hour  strikes,  as  it  must, 

dear  Muse, 
I  beg  you  very  gently  break  the  news. 


QUITS 

If  my  best  wines  mislike  thy  taste, 
And  my  best  service  win  thy  frown, 
Then  tarry  not,  I  bid  thee  haste  j 
There  'j1  many  another  Inn  in  town. 
92 


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